My Mom, the Lake, and the Alligator
A Lifelong Dance with the Water's Edge
Growing up in sunny Florida as a kid, my world revolved around nature. Lake Kerr wasn't just a body of water, it was the stage for my fondest childhood memories. We'd splash in the cool spring-fed water or explore the acres of land where my dad proudly built the house we called home. We hosted lively picnics and barbecues with family and friends and enjoyed peaceful Sunday afternoons outside. The exhilarating late-night boat rides and daily outdoor adventures offered me the space for exploration and creative thinking.
The natural beauty surrounding me wasn't just a backdrop, it was a sanctuary. That quiet space in nature became my retreat, where I could truly ponder the big questions of life and pour all my thoughts and feelings into my journals. Every single sunset became my personal color palette, ready for any creation I could possibly dream up.
On occasion, my sister and I would come across a snake, we'd bolt inside to tell Dad and watch as he bravely grabbed the shotgun and took care of it, making sure we were safe. I built endless sandcastles while watching Dad mix concrete and painstakingly build the seawall that would protect our shoreline from the crashing waves. I’d dig my toes into the sandy lake bottom, collecting mussels, and happily pretend to bake mud pies with the sand, completely lost in my own little world.
Fishing, swimming, and skiing on the lake were, by far, our absolute favorite things to do. Summers were spent floating on inner tubes, paddling around in the small Jon boat, and riding our bikes off the end of the dock. At night, Dad's powerful spotlight would cut through the darkness, illuminating the devilish red eyes of the alligators that seemed to appear everywhere once the sun dipped below the horizon.
Even though my mom loved the lake, she always seemed to harbor a deep-seated fear of the water itself. For the longest time, I assumed it was related to the alligators and the snakes. She never, ever went past her waist when she was in the water. She'd tell me her fear of drowning made it too difficult because she never learned how to swim. I didn't understand it, though, because she always had life jackets around.
Mom made my sister and me go through swimming lessons at a very young age. She was adamant that we needed to be safe around the water, and we were not allowed to go near the lake unless she or her dad were home. She set the rules, and we followed them. We clearly understood the dangers of lake life.
Despite Mom’s fear of drowning, she had a strange ritual with waterskiing. Wearing one of those silly foam-filled waterski belts attached around the waist, she'd start from very shallow water near the shore, with two skis. Dad would slowly pull the slack out of the ski rope, then quickly throttle down. Mom would glide effortlessly up and across the water as he pulled her around the lake. When she motioned to him that she was ready to head home, he would swing the boat in a wide circle in front of our house. The speed from the turn would sling Mom skillfully back toward the beach and to the safety of the shallow water.
Last year, Mom shared a story from her childhood that helped me to finally understand her fear of drowning. As a little girl, around six, she was standing on the end of a dock, holding hands with her grandmother. She didn't particularly like being with her, she said she seemed rather cold-hearted and smelled of chewing tobacco. As they stood there, someone called for her grandmother to come back to the house. Mom wanted to stay. With a stern gaze, her grandmother made her promise,
"If I leave you out here, you cannot get in the water. You have to sit down right here on the dock and not move."
Mom, of course, agreed. But soon after, the allure of the water was too strong. She leaned over, peering into the murky depths, lost her balance, and tumbled headfirst into the lake. A she began to panic, she described seeing the ripples of light dancing above her at the water's surface as she slowly, terrifyingly, began to sink. Then, in an instant, a hand gripped hers, yanking her back to safety.
Mom’s grandmother, who had kept her eyes on her, rushed out in an instant and saved her life. Mom vividly remembered the anger in her grandmother's eyes and the sheer terror of drowning in those few moments. That experience has gripped my mother for her entire life. When she finally shared the story with me, it made sense why her fear wasn't merely about not being able to swim, but about the profound emotional connection to that terrifying childhood experience.
One summer afternoon, we were headed to a party on the other side of the lake. Mom started as usual from the shallow water on two skis as we watched from the boat. The plan was for Mom to ski from our lake house, through the small canal, to our friends' lakefront home. This was a familiar route for her, one she'd navigated countless times without any fear.
We were approaching the canal when, with a sudden jolt, the boat slowed and the motor died. Dad seemed confused, muttering about what we'd hit. As mom, still in the water, began to panic, dad quickly raised the motor to look at the prop. Mom's screams pierced the air, in terror as if she were facing death. My sister and I watched anxiously in panic, wondering what was happening. Then, we saw bubbles, rising to the surface, followed by… floating things.
Finally, Dad got the motor running. He rushed to Mom, pulling her into the boat safely. In that rare and terrifying moment, we realized that our prop had struck an alligator. The "floaty things" were parts of the alligator coming to the surface. Normally, during the day, alligators hid beneath the water or sunned on the shoreline, far away from people. They generally fed at night, and we never swam after dark, so this was a truly rare and unusual event.
Fortunately, Mom was unscathed despite being so emotionally distraught. She knew instantly what had happened. The bubbles, the grotesque parts of the alligator, slowly surfacing from the depths of the water. For all she knew, the creature was maimed and enraged, lurking beneath the surface. That, combined with her fear of drowning, left her in a panic.
Dad felt better once Mom was safe. She seemed angry over how long it took for him to get her out of the water. At this point, the rest of us were actually starting to find some humor in the whole chaotic event. Then Dad, with his wonderfully strange sense of humor, grabbed an oar. He snagged the largest, most unappealing piece of the alligator that had floated to the top and proudly brought it into the boat. He needed proof of what had happened so he could make a grand entrance at the party.
When we finally pulled up to our friends' house, Dad couldn’t wait to tell everyone his wild, dramatic tale. And of course, he had to show off his "trophy" from the back of the boat. Mom? Well, she never quite recovered from that day. I'm pretty sure she hung up her waterskis for good after that. But for my sister and me, it instantly became a legendary story, even if it was a little unsettling. And thank goodness Mom was okay!
Years later, long after my parents had separated, my mom bought and sold several different lake houses. She'd spend hours cleaning along the beach, pulling weeds, meticulously maintaining the shoreline. But she always stayed in the shallow water, never venturing past her waist. The recent string of alligator attacks in Florida is a stark reminder that danger always lurks beneath the waters where I once lived. Some of these attacks have been very unsettling, especially since alligators typically target smaller prey, not humans.
A few months ago, a news story broke about an alligator dragging a woman into the water. It rattled Mom profoundly. As we spoke on the phone, her voice tinged with a new level of fear, she reflected on all those years she'd spent cleaning the beach alone at the lake. She admitted,
"I wouldn't feel so safe doing that today.”
We talked about the increasing aggression of alligators, the growing number of attacks, and the chilling realization that something like that could have easily happened to her, out there alone almost every week. She felt incredibly lucky that nothing like that had ever happened. She even confessed that she doesn't miss the lake as much as she used to.
Today, Mom prefers her small chlorine-filled splash pool at her townhouse over the murky water of Lake Kerr. It's shallow, and offers her peace of mind from the fear of drowning, and is free of alligators. The lake no longer holds the same appeal as she grows older.
Mom's story is a powerful testament to how deeply our childhood experiences, especially those moments of vulnerability and fear, can shape us. It’s not just about what happened, but how those early events often continue to sit in our minds, even subconsciously. Sometimes they have the power to quietly define our relationship with the world around us, including the very things we once loved.
For my mom, that brief, terrifying fall into the lake as a little girl didn't just teach her to be careful. It etched a profound fear of the water onto her soul, a fear that has lingered throughout her entire life. It’s a reminder that sometimes, the deepest scars aren't visible, but they still often influence the way we navigate our lives.
Do you have any experiences that have profoundly shaped your fears? I would love for you to share them.